


Five First Nights

by caritivereflection



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, M/M, Mentions of Gladers and OCs, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caritivereflection/pseuds/caritivereflection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love is a trial and error process, one with as many steps back as forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel to a novel-length AU I am working on. The basic premise is that WICKED is the Western Institute for Compromised Kids’ Ethical Development, and it’s a summer camp for youth struggling with criminal/behavioral issues. This five part fic covers the first night of the year for Minho and Newt, for five subsequent years, starting when they are 13.

His lighter didn’t work. It sparked as he spun the wheel, but the flame wouldn’t hold, and if that wasn’t the shittiest ending to the shittiest day of his shitty life, he didn’t know what was.

Minho chucked the lighter into the lake, a little pissed that it didn’t make a louder sound as it plunged into the water.

“You know litterin’ is against camp rules.”

Minho spun around, his heart picking up pace from the sudden voice.

The moonlight made the boy’s pale complexion and blond hair glow a blue-white. He was tall, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, and Minho vaguely recognized him as one of his cabin mates, though he didn’t remember his name.

Too late, he hid the cigarette behind his back. The boy’s eyes followed his movement, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Illicit substances are against the rules too,” the boy said, taking a step toward Minho, his shoes squelching into he mud of the lakeshore. He had an accent, British or something. Minho liked it. “So’s being out of cabin at two bloody AM.”

Minho stopped trying to hide the cigarette, and fiddled with it, tempted to let it follow the lighter to a watery grave.

But he only had two packs to get him through the summer, and he couldn’t find the willpower to let it go, even if it was hopeless without a lighter. Maybe he could get his hands on a magnifying glass and try to light it with sunlight. There had to be at least one deranged kid who liked torturing animals here.

“Gonna rat on me?” he said. He wanted to sound more threatening than he did, but it wasn’t coming. Nothing seemed to go his way lately.

“No,” the boy said. He stopped a few feet from Minho and turned to look out over the lake. “Even if it isn’t healthy for a twelve year old to have a habit like that.”

“I’m thirteen, asshole,” Minho spat. “And you know it.”

Minho hadn’t forgotten the embarrassing as hell introduction that the senior counsellors had made all the newbies do. Minho and several others had to say their names, ages, where they were from, and what they ‘hoped to gain from this experience’ in front of everyone.

He hated it, but he hated his parents more for sending him here.

The blond let out a chuckle, and Minho felt his stomach flutter at the sound.

He dug his nails into his palms.

“Thirteen then,” the blond said. Minho recalled that he definitely hadn’t been a part of the introductions (he would have noticed), which meant he’d already spent at least a year at the camp. “Don’t look thirteen.”

“Fuck you,” Minho said, and turned to walk away. He only got a few steps before the blond called out to him and he turned back around.

A lighter flicked to life, its bright glow highlighting the blond boy’s features, making his hair look more orange than yellow. It wasn’t a Bic like Minho’s, but one of those expensive, refillable ones.

“Share?” he said, flipped the cap back on the lighter.

Minho looked down at the cigarette held between his index and middle fingers. He only had two packs, and sharing hadn’t been on the agenda. But with no lighter…

“Sure,” he said.

“Good,” the boy said with a nod of his head. “There’s a dock ‘round the other side. Got a light an’ everything. Shall we?”

Minho didn’t see the point of going to the dock, light or no, but he didn’t want to lose his only chance of getting some much needed nicotine into his body. He hadn’t had a smoke in almost a day and a half at this point, between being stuck in a car with his parents for twelve hours and then dealing with this fuck-up camp bullshit.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The lake was tiny, closer to a pond, really (though Minho lived right next to one of the biggest lakes in the country, so he was probably a tough judge), and it only took them a few minutes to circle around to a rickety looking dock. A single lamppost hung over it, casting a circle of dull yellow light. Minho paused even while the blond started walking on the dock. The thing looked like it would collapse at any moment.

The boy stopped in the middle of the dock, casting a glance back over his shoulder.

“It’s stronger than it looks,” he said. “Helped build the bloody thing myself.”

“That’s supposed to reassure me?” Minho said with a grimace. But he stepped on. The dock creaked, but it didn’t sway or feel unsteady.

In a few seconds the blond boy was seating himself on the edge. Minho joined him. It was too far for even the blond’s long legs to touch the water, so their mud covered shoes dangled freely in the air

“Here,” the boy said, offering Minho the lighter. He took it, its steel warm from the blond’s skin. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and almost whined at the first inhalation of smoke.

He held it in his lungs a long time before exhaling, and opened his eyes. He didn’t even notice that they’d closed.

The other boy was looking at him, his eyebrows raised. Minho took another puff and passed him the cigarette, as well as the lighter. Long, graceful fingers brushed against his, and Minho felt that stupid flutter in his stomach again.

They passed the cigarette in silence, the night air filled with smoke and a chorus of frogs and insects. It was chilly, despite the time of year, and Minho vaguely regretted not bringing a hoodie with him like the other boy.

“What’s your name?” he said, glancing to the side and suddenly realizing how stupid it was to be sharing a banned substance with someone he didn’t even know the name of. The boy’s lips were wrapped around the filter, and Minho’s heart skipped a beat.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

He shouldn’t have asked the guy his name, because this was absolutely the last time he would be speaking to him. He could not make a habit of sharing late nights alone with pretty boys.

“Newt,” he said, passing the cigarette back to Minho. He popped it into his mouth. Surely, the taste of something far more delectable than nicotine was only his imagination. “And you’re Minho. Minho _MacIntyre_.”

The emphasis on his last name was subtle enough that he let it slide. But… _Newt_. It wasn’t a common name.

“Newt?” he said, the word feeling light and too good on his tongue. “Like the fucking lizard?”

The guy, Newt, stiffened. He glared at Minho.

“The newt is an amphibian,” he said. “They’re salamanders, not lizards.”

“…Whatever, salamander boy,” Minho said, taking another long drag. The cigarette was nearly gone, the bright ember almost to the filter now. He passed it back to Newt for the last pull (maybe he was a fuck up, but he didn’t forget _all_ the manners his parents taught him).

“Did your parents send you here because you’re an arse?” he said. “Or was it the smoking, too?”

Minho snorted. “I don’t even think my uptight parents would send me here for just cigs, man.”

“Then what?”

“I started too many fist fights in school.”

It wasn’t a _total_ lie.

Newt raised an eyebrow, as if impressed, and stubbed the cigarette butt out on the dock. Minho knew he didn’t look the fighting type. He was small for his age, but he was deceptively strong and packed punch that few people wanted to be on the receiving end of.

“Why fighting?”

Minho opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question. The principal, his parents, guidance counsellors, the Bishop, and two therapists had asked him the same thing. To them, Minho’d shrugged. He hadn’t even thought the question through then, but now he wanted to give a real answer.

“Because… people are dicks, I guess,” he said. It was so simple, and yet so true at the same time.

Newt laughed. “True enough, mate,” he said, and then got to his feet. He grabbed the cigarette butt and pocketed it, and Minho rolled his yes. No littering indeed.

“I’ll see ya around, yeah?” Newt said, heading off the dock. “Try not to get caught by the seniors.”

Minho grunted in response. He watched Newt go, his long strides carrying him away from Minho quickly.

His stomach fluttered again.

No, he would definitely not speak to that boy again, lighter or no. It wasn’t worth the risk.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, only forty-four percent of campers come back for their second year.”

Minho smiled at the familiar voice, felt his cheeks turn warm as the butterflies came alive in his gut. He never managed to keep himself away from the blond, and ten months he’d gone without that voice, ten months without Newt’s ‘you know’s and teasing words and charming accent. Ten months, and four months ago he’d tucked the camp photos away and declared his hopeless crush (a phase, nothing more) successfully conquered.

It all came rushing back as he turned. Newt was taller (goddamn stupid fucking tree) and his honey blond hair was longer, tucked behind his ears with the tips curling around his defined jaw. His shoulders were wider, his arms thicker and with a definition that hadn’t been there last year.

“Does that make me a special kind of fuck up?” Minho said.

“Well I’m goin’ on year three,” Newt said, walking forward to stand next to Minho on the shore. “So not as buggin’ special as me.”

“Yeah, you’re special alright,” Minho said with a snort. Despite the derisive way he said it, he genuinely meant it. The blond was the most special person Minho’d ever met.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud. Ever. To anyone. Or even in an empty room.

But it was the truth.

Minho looked toward the cabins. It was past midnight, and all the lights were off save for those that lit the pathway to the bathrooms. He didn’t know if he and Newt were the only night owls in camp, or just the only ones to meet up here, but he didn’t really care as long as they could have these moments alone.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers finding the smooth plastic of the bag.

“Hey, you still got a lighter?”

“Always,” Newt said. “But I thought you quit?”

Minho shrugged. “Sort of,” he said, then jerked his head toward the dock. “C’mon.”

***

Twenty minutes later, the pipe was empty. They laid back on the dock, their feet dangling over the edge (and Minho was getting a little hopeful that he was starting to close that height gap between them) and their shoulders brushing through thin t-shirts. A warm breeze blew through the night and left ripples and swirls on the surface of the water.

“My parents are having another kid.”

“Yeah? They adoptin’ from Korea again?”

“No,” Minho said, drawing the word out. “A real one. Less buyer’s remorse, I guess.”

He chuckled at the joke, but stopped once he realized Newt wasn’t laughing. He turned his head to the side, found Newt looking at him, frowning.

He tried not to think about how close they were.

“It’s a joke. You can laugh at it. Ha ha.”

“It’s not funny, Min,” Newt said, propping himself up on an elbow and twisting to face him. “You are their real kid.”

Minho scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. Don’t be all depressing, bro. I know I’m not what they signed up for.”

“No. No, Min,” Newt sat up, crossed his legs under him and Minho had to boost himself up on his elbows to look at the blond. His expression was some combination of perplexed, angry, and sad, and Minho wished he’d never said anything.

“You’re not a fuck up,” Newt said, and despite the lack of light, Minho could feel the blond’s eyes staring into his, so intensely that he had to look away. “No, listen to me. You’re not, and I can’t believe that your parents regret havin’ ya, ‘cause I’ve seen the bloody novel your dad writes you every week. Not to mention the fuckin’ care packages from your mum.”

Minho sighed and let himself fall back on the dock. A hand landed on his knee, twisted into his jeans, and wiggled his leg.

“Minho,” Newt said, the word a drawn out whine. “I’m serious. I’m sure they—”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Minho said, a sudden anger coming to life inside him. “And neither do they, ‘cause if they did, I’d get a lot more than shipped off to fucking junior criminal summer camp, OK?”

Newt’s frown deepened, and there was a look of real concern on his face. Minho realized that he probably made that sound a lot worse than it was.

Then again, there weren’t many things worse than going to hell because he couldn’t stop thinking all the wrong thoughts about other boys.

“Are… are you in trouble or somethin’, Minho?” Newt said, and Minho wanted to go drown in the lake at the look of worry on Newt’s face. He couldn’t believe he had a crush on this guy, because he was obvious a complete dumb ass if he was wasting his brain cells worrying about Minho.

“No,” Minho said, the word holding more anger than he intended.

“Really? ‘Cause last year you came with plain old cigarettes, and now you have pot—”

“Which you just helped me smoke.”

The blond glared at him before continuing.

“And now you have pot. That’s some textbook escalation there, mate.”

“It’s a pipe and enough to last like a week, dude,” he said. “Not a brick of coke.”

“Saving that for next year?” Newt said. Minho propped himself up again and glared at Newt. The taller boy held his gaze, didn’t waver in the slightest, so Minho sighed in defeat.

“I know they love me or whatever, OK?” he said, his eyes darting to the side so he didn’t have to look at the way Newt looked at him. “Just drop it.”

Newt must have listened, because a stark silence enveloped them. Without Newt’s worried voice, Minho became aware of the background noises of the night. Crickets chirped merrily, playing their mating serenades as the breeze made the leaves of the trees whisper softly.

He’d missed this. Maybe even as much as Newt, he’d missed the stillness of the camp. Despite the weekly trips to church that were simply a fact of life in his world, Minho wasn’t a spiritual person. And yet, when he was here, at camp and especially on this dock and most especially with Newt, he felt an odd connection to the world around him. Like he was in tune with the energy of the place.

Like he fit.

“I don’t even want to know how you smuggled that in, ‘cause I bloody well know they search the luggage.”

Minho cracked a smile. This was good. This he could do. Jokes and jabs and insults that weren’t meant but were too true, all those things he knew. 

He could handle those.

He nudged Newt’s knee with his own.

“Let’s just say you got more intimate with me than you ever dreamed possible.”


	3. Chapter 3

The dock looked as treacherous as ever, but its body of cracked, worm eaten wood could hold up the world, and its yellow light was a beacon to Minho, luring him in like the many moths that fluttered around its bulb.

Newt would find him here. Find him and scold him for avoiding him the whole day.

And perhaps for other things.

But really, there was nothing Minho wanted more.

He didn’t have to wait long, and as one day turned into the next, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. First through the soft grass, only audible because of snapping twigs, and then on the dock itself.

Jean clad legs and ratty sneakers stopped at his left.

“You know, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Minho smiled, but the curve didn’t feel right on his lips. It was forced, because as happy as he was to see the blond, he would now have to accept responsibility for how badly he fucked up last summer.

“You mean you need to stop stalking me,” he said, falling back into the same old pattern of sass and confessions disguised as insults.

He didn’t look as Newt sat down next to him, nor did he look when they fell into small talk.

(“How’s it feel to be a big brother?” “Babies are fucking disgusting. This is my vacation from diaper duty.”)

(“My mom actually let me go see them when they came to SLC.” “Were they amazing? Don’t tell me if they were, ‘cause then I’ll have to shove you into the bloody lake.”)

(“And so me mum’s wavin’ this bloke’s prosthetic leg around and Ginger’s tryin’ to shove all the clams down her bra before they kick us out.” “Did you at least get to finish your birthday pancakes?” “Put ‘em in my cheeks like a squirrel while the waitress swung a broom at me.”)

And Newt didn’t mention a thing about last summer, and Minho thought maybe, just maybe, he’d get away with it.

But then Newt nudged him with his knee, and Minho looked up and met his eyes for the first time that night. That pressure inside his chest, that surge of possibility and knowing was still there, after ten months apart. Stronger than ever.

In the dull light that flickered behind the wings of moths, he couldn’t make out the color of Newt’s eyes, but he knew it well enough by now that he wouldn’t need light at all to describe the honey brown that spread out from the pupil to weave into an earthy green.

He was convinced that he’d imagined and studied Newt enough that the details would never leave him. The eyes, the tiny dusting of freckles across his nose and arms, the way that his hair curled around the nape of his neck, the fact that his fingernails were always bitten to the quick, sometimes bleeding.

Minho didn’t realize he’d been staring until a warm hand found his knee.

“We should talk about it,” Newt said, his eyes cutting into Minho. Sometimes he hated Newt’s eyes just because he always felt like they saw every part of him, even the ones he tried desperately to hide. They stripped him, left him naked and shaking and defenseless.

Sometimes he loved Newt’s eyes for the same reason.

“Talk about what?” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. Newt was so close, close enough that Minho could smell the soap he used—something mild and soft and fresh—and if he just leaned in a little bit more…

Newt pinched his leg.

“You know what,” Newt said, glaring at him now. “You don’t get to bloody kiss a guy on the last day of camp and then come back actin’ like nothing happened.”

Minho froze. How could Newt just say it like that? Minho had agonized over that moment for the last ten months, and yet the prospect of discussing it, much less spelling it out so plainly, made him sick to his stomach.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Minho said, even as his soul screamed out that words like _should happen_ were made to describe perfect moments like that kiss, when, for a split second, all the atoms in the universe aligned just to make their lips touch.

Newt raised his eyebrows.

“Wow. Was I that bad?” he said, and he removed his hand from Minho’s leg, leaving the skin beneath the cargo pants cold. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly prepared. Next time you ought to give a guy a little bloody warning.”

Minho choked on his spit, prompting a coughing fit that allowed him to look away from Newt and served to excuse the redness of his face.

When he regained his ability to speak, he glanced at Newt before quickly looking away, drawing a knee up to his chest and hugging it.

“It was stupid,” he said, swallowing around the burn in his throat. “A joke’s all, really.”

“Don’t do that, Min,” Newt said. “You’re a bad fuckin’ liar.”

Minho’s face stayed red and he debated jumping in the lake just to end the conversation. If he was lucky, Newt would let him drown in peace.

“Look,” Newt said. “I think I know why you feel like you can’t do this. I’m not gonna knock your parents or your faith or fault you for choosin’ them.”

Newt shifted, pulling one leg under the other and turning his body to face Minho.

“And if you want to tell me again that it was a joke, I’ll accept that. We’ll say it was a joke and move on and we’re still friends no matter what, Minho,” he said. “But I don’t think it was a bloody joke. I think you meant it, and maybe that’s wishful thinking ‘cause… ‘cause I never had a kiss like that before.”

Newt swallowed, loud.

“So if you meant it, even just a little bit, you should have the balls to say as much and kiss me again right now.”

Minho’s eyes snapped to Newt’s and found that the other boy was just as red, even as his eyes were set in a fierce gaze. There was no trickery in his words, and for the first time, Minho felt as if maybe Newt got the same feeling when their eyes met, as if he was stripped bare for the other to see. His breath left him then and it felt like an eternity, even when, deep inside his heart, it was the quickest decision he ever made.

Emboldened by Newt’s kindness, by his vulnerability and the subtle challenge in his words, Minho leaned forward, tilting his chin upward. The blond’s lips were cool, and this time he returned the kiss immediately, pressing his hands against Minho’s shoulders. It was nothing like the last time, when Minho had been nerves and sweaty palms and Newt had been surprise and confusion.

Now Minho was shaky courage, and Newt was, as always, confidence that seemed unnatural for a teenage boy.

There was no blazing heat, no spark of electricity, no fireworks. Kissing Newt was the slow burning warmth of a campfire and sparklers on the Fourth of July. It was peach lemonade and his mother’s peanut butter cookies.

It was the dock light.

It was the year’s first breath of snowy air, strange and lung-burning, but warm and familiar in its own peculiar way.

Maybe he couldn’t understand the gravity of that kiss, but Minho knew, at least, that there was no going back. That kiss was an acceptance of things, of growing up and of his own desires. Perhaps, above all, that kiss was an acceptance that his simple boyhood crush had turned into something more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene which could be triggering. I've not warned for specifics because I feel like doing so would significantly and negatively impact the reading experience. Just be aware that it gets very dark in parts, and if you are concerned and want more information prior to reading, you can contact me at my tumblr (caritivereflection).

Minho stepped off the path, the crunch of gravel replaced with the soft squish of wet grass and mud. The hood of his coat was pulled tight over his head to spare him the worst of the drizzling rain. The lake wasn’t far from the cabins, and he skirted around the edges of it, watching the fat, lazy raindrops fall and create a never ending cycle of ripples on the surface.

A lone figure sat upon the dock, just as Minho had anticipated.

Newt didn’t turn as Minho stepped onto the wood, and the Asian boy used the moment to take in the sight. Newt was sitting with one leg crossed under him, the other, encased in a heavy black walking cast, dangled off the side, mere inches from the surface of the water. Only a thin long-sleeved t-shirt stood between him and the rain, and, as it was, the thing was more water than fabric now. His hair was longer than last year, emphasized by the water weight and hanging around him in heavy, dark strings.

The blond’s only movement was to take a swig from a bottle he had clutched in his fingers. Something square. Black label.

“You know, usually this is the other way around,” Minho said. Taking careful steps, he made his way down the dock, sitting beside the other boy. He couldn’t help but frown as he saw Newt up close.

The taller boy’s skin wasn’t the usual beginning-of-summer pale, but rather the pallor of someone sickly. He had bags under his eyes and Minho saw, when the blond glanced at him, that his usually bright eyes were dull and empty in a way that had nothing to do with the darkness around them.

Minho’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He’d seen the blond in passing earlier, had seen the cast and wondered about it, but had pushed away the questions for their traditional lakeside meeting.

From a distance, Newt hadn’t looked so bad, but it was becoming apparent that something was wrong.

He just didn’t know what, or how to approach it.

“I figured I’d find you here,” Minho said. “You were kinda glued to Alby the whole day, yeah?”

“Senior camper stuff,” Newt said, and took a sip from the bottle. Perhaps only two fingers’ widths were gone, but it didn’t look like Newt had any intent of taking it easy.

“Right,” Minho said. This was Newt’s fifth year, which meant that of course he’d be helping run things. Minho probably could’ve picked up a leadership role, too, since he was sixteen and starting his fourth year, but he didn’t apply and he wasn’t asked. He figured, pretty selfishly, that if both he and Newt were Keepers, then they would have a lot less time for each other.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring off into the waters of the lake until something heavy and hard tapped against his knee. He glanced down, and accepted the bottle Newt offered to him, taking a drink and suppressing a gag at the bitterness and burn.

He passed it back.

“So,” he said, since it was clear that Newt wouldn’t be taking any of the initiative in conversation that night. “What’s up with the new fashion accessory? Didn’t peg you for a boot man.”

“Car wreck,” Newt answered simply. He seemed to be doing that a lot now, answering in the plainest way possible, and in a tone that was strangely cold for the typically vibrant youth. “Fucked my ankle up.”

“Is it… was it _bad_?” Minho said, reaching up to grab Newt’s shoulder, fingers pressing into the soaked fabric of his shirt. A sudden stab of worry jolted through him at Newt’s words. It was obvious the ankle was broken, but he assumed it had been because of something more mundane and less lethal than a car accident could be. “I mean, like, are you OK? Other than… other than the ankle.”

There was a tense silence in the air, and Newt’s eyes seemed to cloud over for a minute before he looked at Minho.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He shrugged as he said it and Minho’s hand fell away. The blond took another gulp of liquor.

If Minho had been worried for Newt before, he was _scared_ now. He didn’t realize it until this moment, but it wasn’t the drinking or the car accident and the ankle or even the emptiness in his eyes that irked him. It was the absolute fucking _monotone_ the British boy spoke in. Newt was animated. He was vibrant and his voice was perhaps the part of him that best conveyed it. There was always something in his voice, happiness or anger or disgust (or, Minho had been fortunate enough to hear more than once, the rough, low growls of lust).

Now there was just… nothing. Even his accent seemed flatter, his voice drained of its colorful vocabulary.

“I just want to know what’s wrong, Newt.”

“I drove my car off a bridge, Minho!” Newt said, and Minho was almost glad to hear his voice crack when he spoke his name, if only because it revealed that the blond was feeling _something_. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but instead I’ve a fucked up leg and left my mum without a bloody car. And I still have to come back here and look at you for the next two months and know that it’s never going to carry over to the real world.”

“I…” Minho said, his voice failing him as images of Newt careening off a bridge flooded his mind. _I wasn’t supposed to be here_. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

“What d’you…” he started again, then shook his head. “Newt, I want to help you.”

“You want to help me?” Newt said, and it was followed by a bark of laughter. “You can’t even tell your mummy and daddy you like cock, and you think you can help me?”

Minho frowned.

“This has nothing to do with what I tell my parents. And I don’t… I’m not…”

His voice faltered and faded into the night.

“A faggot?” Newt prompted. Minho visibly flinched at the word, but that only spurred Newt on. “You’re a fag, Minho. A queer. A homo, a fairy. You’re bloody gay and you can’t even say the word. Maybe I’m a fuck up in other ways, but at least I can admit to what makes me hard. At least I’m not a self hating faggot.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Newt,” Minho spat back, anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t know shit.”

Newt’s words weren’t anything unfamiliar, nothing he hadn’t heard used at school or in the neighborhood a thousand times over. Hell, they weren’t anything he hadn’t used himself. Nothing he hadn’t been the target of in typical teenage fashion, from friends and rivals alike. But, somehow, having them thrown at him by Newt made it a lot worse. Newt knew exactly how much they hurt.

And that’s why he was using them.

“I don’t know shit?” Newt said. “Fuck, I’ll show you what I know.”

Newt struck out with impressive speed and before Minho could even process the blond’s movement, their lips were pressed together with a bruising, crushing force. Newt’s wet hands held each side of his face, locking him in place. The kiss had none of the gentleness of last summer, no playful nips or interruptions of giggles or sweet, whispered words. It was cold and hard and made his teeth hurt.

It was more violent than a kiss ever should be.

A hand pushed down his hood and went to his hair, pulling so tightly that tears sprang to his eyes, and it was that pain that snapped Minho out of his shocked state.

He put his hands against Newt’s shoulders and pushed until their lips separated and he could breathe. Newt only backed away a few inches, his fingers still entwined in Minho’s short hair.

“What the _fuck_ , Newt?” Minho said, not trying to lower the volume of his voice, much less disguise the fury in it. The chances that the sleeping campers in the cabins could hear him were slim, but, regardless, he didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Provin’ that I know buggin’ enough,” Newt said. There was a moment of relief as Newt’s hand left his hair, but it was temporary. The world twisted and spun as Newt pushed him down onto his back, moving to straddle him with a smoothness and speed unexpected of someone sporting a bulky cast. Newt pulled his arms above his head and strong hands pinned his wrists to the wood.

“I promise you’ll like it,” Newt said, leaning so closely that Minho could smell the stench of whiskey on his breath. “Trust me, it’s so much easier if you just let it happen.”

Perhaps it was the bizarreness of the situation or Minho’s own naivety, but he didn’t know what ‘it’ was until one hand left his wrists and moved to press against the front of his pants.

Minho froze.

Throughout last summer they had kept everything strictly above the waist, but Minho had imagined what this moment would be like hundreds of times. How it would feel when Newt first touched him. Where they would be. What they would say.

It wasn’t like this.

Anything like this.

He closed his eyes, tried to ignore the cold drops of rain as they fell on his face. Tried to ignore the way his bones ground together as Newt pressed his wrists harder to the dock. Tried to ignore when Newt lifted his shirt up and a hand settled under his navel, edging under the waistband of his pants.

Whatever was keeping Minho in place snapped and he moved, bucked his hips, twisted his arms and his body. Maybe Newt wasn’t expecting such ferocious resistance, because he lost his grip and balance and flopped off of Minho on the first try, landing several feet away on the dock. There was a splash, the bottle of Jack Daniels falling into the water.

Minho sat up, suddenly all too aware of the rapid pace of his heart, of the way his eyes were wide and everything around him seemed so clear.

He skittered back on the dock in something akin to a crab walk, only just managing to catch himself from following the liquor into the lake when one of his hands found air instead of wood.

An eerie stillness settled over them. There was no movement save for the rain falling, no sound save for the pounding of his own heart.

The stillness was shattered when Newt sat up, a muttered curse fading into the rain. Minho shifted, pulled his knees to his chest and curled his shaking arms around them.

“If you touch me again, I’ll push you in the fucking lake and we’ll see if you can swim with that cast on,” he said, and the words were stronger than he thought they could be. His heart was pumping, his muscles twitching as he fought back the adrenaline induced desire to fight or flee.

A part of him wanted to shove the blond into the water regardless of if he made another move, because he damn well deserved it. Newt had no right. No fucking right.

But he didn’t do that, because it would be an admission of how scared he was.

“Fuck,” Newt said, he glanced at Minho, then at his hands, and his eyes had a frightened spark in them. “God, Min, I’m so—”

“Shut up,” Minho said, letting the fear he felt transform into anger. That was easier, safer to deal with. Better than admitting how Newt had terrified him. “You don’t get to pull shit like that, Newt. No one does. What the _fuck_ were you thinking? You don’t get to do that.”

Newt held his eyes before looking away, ashamed. He curled into a ball, or the closest he could come with the walking boot in the way, and clutched at his own hair.

“And you don’t get to talk about being… gay,” Minho spat. “‘Cause you’re not. You got a choice, alright? I’ve fucking tried to like girls, and it’s just not there.”

Newt muttered something, but between the rain and the way Newt’s hands muffled his voice, Minho couldn’t make it out.

Minho wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but gradually he relaxed, stopped hugging his knees as the tremble in his fingers disappeared. After a few more minutes, when he was sure that he wasn’t going to freak out again, he edged closer to Newt.

The taller boy didn’t look up. His face was buried in his arms, and his back rose and fell and shook in an obvious sign of crying.

“Hey,” he said, sitting close to the blond but not touching him. “Newt.”

Newt froze, the Minho heard a sniffle and the boy lifted his head, wiping away tears. With wet sleeves, it didn’t work very well.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Newt said, glancing nervously toward Minho. “I’m an asshole. I’m a bloody monster.”

“You’re not a monster, you dope,” Minho said, rolling his eyes. He felt an uneasy twist in his gut as he recalled what happened only minutes ago, but no… Newt wasn’t a monster. Not to Minho, and maybe that was messed up, but it’s what it was. “You’re just… fucked up.”

It wasn’t said with the sneering disgust of a police officer or a teacher or one of the millions of authority figures who didn’t give a shit about people like them. It wasn’t said in the disguised, piteous words—words that were technical and nice sounding but meant the same thing—of the therapists and doctors and behavioral health specialists who tried to ‘help’ them.

It was just said as the plain truth, from one fucked up kid to another.

Newt shivered.

“Fucked up and maybe stupid, too. Why the fuck did you come without a jacket?” Minho said, getting to his knees and reaching for his zipper. He had it halfway down before Newt waved a hand to stop him.

“Don’t bloody bother,” he said. “M’already soaked through to my pants.”

Minho didn’t stop, shrugging the thin coat off. It was more a windbreaker than anything, with only a thin layer for warmth, but it stopped the rain well enough. He draped it over Newt’s shoulders, pulling the hood up to cover the wet, blond hair.

“Thanks,” Newt said after a moment. He sniffled again and grabbed the edges of the coat, pulling it tighter.

“You’re welcome,” Minho said. He went to sit back down, then paused as he looked at Newt. He looked small sitting there wrapped in Minho’s coat, which was silly since he was still taller.

Minho should’ve been angrier than he was.

He was angry. Of that there was no doubt. He was angry, but most of the fear had left him and he should be furious. He should be pissed at Newt’s insulting words and irate at the way he touched him.

But he wasn’t, and that was probably only because it was Newt.

He slid next to the blond, letting their legs, their hips, their shoulders touch. A part of him wanted to wrap his arms around the other boy, pull him in for a hug, but he also knew that such a thing would be too much for either of them right now.

So he just sat there, slowly growing heavy with the rain as newt shuddered beside him.

The coat was a pretty silly gesture. Newt was already drenched, and now both of them would return to the cabin wet and cold.

But at least they would be in it together.

Maybe it was a metaphor or some shit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't say I'm entirely happy with this final chapter, but I am... content. This is for the lovely zorzak on tumblr. Happy birthday! I hope everything else you receive is infinitely better than this :p

Minho was about a second from saying ‘fuck it’ to tradition and returning to his nice, warm bed.

As moonlight filtered through the trees, he clutched the jacket tighter around himself, tucking his hands into his armpits in an attempt to warm them. The world was a strange blue-white, almost etherial, and it made it seem all the colder.

Minho wouldn’t have even bothered with this stupid plan if he wasn’t so paranoid about one of the other boys spotting them leaving together and guessing what they were up to—or, god forbid, _following_ them. Newt had even protested, insisting that everyone would be asleep.

There was a momentary stab of fear when he considered the possibility of Newt following suit and just going to sleep instead of meeting with Minho. But no. That was silly. The Brit was anticipating this just as much as Minho. He’d seen the hungry looks that Newt sent him across the fields and rooms all day long.

But that didn’t excuse the ten solid minutes that Minho’d sat out in the cold. He sighed, breath creeping up into the night air.

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps approach. He knew it was Newt by the slight unevenness in his steps, the lingering reminder of a nasty car wreck just before last summer.

“‘Bout time,” Minho muttered, the feigned annoyance in his voice betrayed by the smile growing on his lips.

“Bloody deserved it, makin’ me come out here in this weather,” Newt said. He felt the blond come to a halt next to him, and Minho smirked, ready to drop a cheesy pickup line, until he opened his eyes and saw what Newt was wearing. He squinted in the darkness, the smirk falling from his lips, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him. But… no, that was definitely a leather jacket, complete with chains, spikes, and patches.

“You know, when I told you to remember to bring a jacket, I meant something for camping, not joining a fucking biker gang,” he said, his voice hushed.

“You can’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on a little,” Newt said, rolling his eyes as he grabbed Minho’s wrist. Warmth crawled up his arm at the contact, and he didn’t resist as Newt tugged him forward, toward the lake and their traditional meeting place.

“I didn’t say that,” Minho said. He smirked. “In fact, why didn’t you tell me you had something like that? I mean, shit, I coulda used a picture of you in that a lot during the year.”

“You complainin’ about the quality of the wank material I sent ya?” Newt said. Though Minho couldn’t see his face, still trailing behind him as the blond led them toward the lake, he knew that Newt was smiling.

“No! No, don’t get me wrong,” he said as they veered off the path. Newt’s limp became more pronounced on the uneven terrain, and Minho quickened his pace for a second, pulling even and falling into stride with the other boy. “Just… you made me wait ten minutes in the cold, and I ain’t even mad.”

Newt grunted, but didn’t say anything in response. Minho was fine with falling into silence, but the way the blond shrugged off his comment made him frown. He decided to drop the subject however, and used the silence to study Newt.

Minho still felt butterflies when he watched him. At the end of last year, they had exchanged phone numbers and, since then, traded more words and pictures than he could count—both, as Newt put it, ‘wank material’ and not—but the feeling itself hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had grown more intense, putting the giddy joy of those late night phone calls to shame.

Newt was, much to Minho’s chagrin, taller than last year, widening the gap that Minho had worked hard at closing over the years. His hair, lightened almost to white in the moonlight, was tangled and long and tucked into the collar of the leather jacket that hugged his shoulders.

“Hey,” Minho said as they approached the lakeside, digging his heels into the grassy dirt and forcing Newt, his hand still wrapped around Minho’s wrist, to come to a stop.

Newt regarded him, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

Minho smiled, letting that inner burst of happiness he felt in the blond’s presence become visible in the curve of lips and the show of teeth.

“You look great,” he said. There were other words he could have used, ones that might have been more romantic or appropriate. But ‘great’ was simply a truth, one uncolored by the prejudice of lust that attached itself to ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’.

Newt rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked up in that way that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. A second and a half step later, he was pressing their mouths together.

It was a simple kiss. Quick. Not particularly special or passionate. Despite its simplicity, warmth spread through him as chapped lips moved against his, and he sighed into the kiss, raising his hand to cup the back of Newt’s neck.

There was a certain joy he got only with Newt, and, as wonderful as it had been to hear his voice and see pictures over the year, being with him in person was…

Minho loved it. He loved it, he realized, and he loved _Newt_.

Fuck.

Newt threaded their fingers together as he pulled back, a devilish glint in his eyes.

“You’re a bloody sap,” he said, tugging Minho toward the lake and clearly not noticing the shocked realization that had crossed the other boy’s features. “Now get a move on.”

***

Minho felt an odd, stabbing pain in his chest at the sight of the unlit lamppost. He never thought he would grieve the loss of a lightbulb.

“How the fuck d’you even replace that thing?” Newt said. They had stopped just above the dock, their fingers still entwined as they took in the view, lit only by the moon.

“Fuck if I know,” he said, shrugging, letting his fingers slip away from Newt’s as he stepped onto the dock. “M’just glad it’s a full moon I hate messing around when it’s too dark.”

He heard Newt scoff, but the blond followed him without hesitation. They stopped near the middle and sat down, their feet stretched out before them. Gone were the days when they could let their legs dangle off the edge and hope to keep their feet dry.

“It’s forty bloody degrees,” Newt said, letting out a huff of foggy breath to emphasize his point. “I’m not shaggin’ on the dock. Our dicks’ll turn into icicles and snap off.”

“Can’t we just make our own heat?” Minho said, placing a hand on Newt’s knee and scooting closer, letting their shoulders brush.

“That’s the lamest buggin’ line I ever heard,” Newt said. “And yeah, I’m including all your others.”

Minho let out a chuckle. As far as pickup lines went, it certainly wasn’t his best.

But Newt’s actions contradicted his words, and his own hand mimicked Minho’s, coming to rest on the boy’s inner thigh. Warmth spread through the fabric of his jeans and seeped into his skin, making the rest of his body cold by comparison.

Well, _most_ of his body.

Without wasting another moment, Minho leaned forward and kissed Newt, his free hand cupping the blond’s cheek.

Newt’s tongue darted out and licked at Minho’s lips before nipping at the bottom one and taking it into his mouth, sucking for the briefest second before releasing it. The blond’s hand stroked his thigh and Minho groaned, breaking the kiss long enough to speak.

“I swear to god, you’re the worst tease.”

He moved his hand from Newt’s face to the back of his head, pulling him forward so he could press their lips together more firmly. He pushed his tongue into Newt’s mouth, the blond allowing him entrance with a sound of contentment.

But when Newt’s hand moved to cup the front of his jeans, Minho broke the kiss with a curse.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Hard already, Min?” Newt whispered, leaving light kisses over Minho’s ear and neck. He clicked his tongue. “I expected more.”

“Fuck you,” Minho said, though the last word was drawn out long in a moan. “What d’you expect after teasing me for the last ten months?”

Newt hummed, and proceeded to lean back, pulling Minho on top of him. It took a few minutes to adjust themselves and get into a comfortable position, but soon their legs were tangled with each other, hips pressing, mouths latched together as they moved in halted, jerky motions.

“Fuck,” Newt said, his head thrown back as Minho kissed his neck. He didn’t bite or suck, not wanting to leave any visible marks to arouse suspicion in their fellow campers.

“Need more than this bloody dry humpin’ shit,” Newt muttered, his breathing heavy as Minho continued to rub against him.

He halted his motions as he felt Newt’s hands wiggle their way between their bodies.

“Thought you didn’t want to whip it out?” Minho said, lifting himself up on his elbows to both give Newt more room to work with and to let the blond boy see his smirk. It helped that he got to take in the sight of Newt, face flushed and lips swollen and dark.

“Shut up, you git,” Newt said, tilting his head up to capture Minho’s lips at the exact moment his fingers managed to pull down the other boy’s zipper. Soon, his jeans were pushed down his hips and sensation overtook him when Newt’s slender fingers found him.

Tender was how Minho always imagined this moment. Sweet and slow and romantic. Not a blur of motion, a frenzied world of thrusting hips and grabbing hands and hungry lips. All the while, Newt’s every action drove him mad. The blond had a way about him that made Minho fall to pieces, and sex was no different. Despite being on top, being the one who pushed his hips against Newt, the taller boy was firmly in control, and Minho was only along for the ride, his babbled endearments and moans and slurs of Newt’s name and _how good so good_ yes _baby_ fading into the night air.

They fell into a rhythm that way, Minho holding himself above Newt and thrusting his hips while the blond jerked them off together. Neither of them lasted long. It was over in a blur, far too soon, and when it was, Minho flopped onto the dock, his back landing flat on the hard, chilled wood with a creak. Above him, a starlit sky blanketed the world, and his breath rose in clouds to meet it, chest heaving as he recovered.

Beside him, Newt's breathing was just as labored.

"Fuck," he muttered, letting his eyes fall closed as he drank in the afterglow.

Newt let out a long hum of contentment. He liked these moments, when they had a chance to just lay together and be in each other's presence. Far too often, all they could get were quick, heated make outs, forced to break apart and rush away lest they arouse suspicion.

But this? This was nice. Maybe even nicer than the sex itself.

OK, that was a lie. The sex was fucking amazing.

"That was better than any... any of our phone conver... conversations," Minho said, his tongue still getting used to talking instead of kissing.

"Ya think?" Newt said, and Minho felt the back of the blond's hand fall against his hip. "You might wanna tuck your willy back in, 'fore it freezes off."

Minho did as suggested, barely managing to bite back a whimper at the touch against his oversensitive flesh. Newt's hand still hadn't left his hip, and so Minho grasped it when he was finished, entwining their fingers.

"That was crazy," he mumbled, the sudden realization of what they had just done, and where they had done it, dawning on him. "Anyone coulda seen us."

"I know. It's kinda hot."

"Fucking voyeur."

"It's exhibitionist. Voyeurs like to watch."

Minho snorted, not wanting to dwell on how Newt knew that. Instead, he just let them descend into silence.

He wasn't sure how long they laid there like that, but Minho felt like he could fall into a light doze, and was headed in that direction before Newt broke the still silence of the night.

"You got a light?" he said, the words tight, like his lips were already wrapped around a cigarette.

"Hmm? Yeah," Minho said, digging into his jeans pocket to wrap his fingers around a familiar silver lighter. He didn't open his eyes as he held it out to Newt. He felt the blond hesitate for a moment before the lighter was plucked from his hands.

"I can't believe you still have this bloody thing," Newt said.

"'Course I do," Minho mumbled. "You gave it to me."

Newt didn't reply, and he heard the snick-snick-snick as he tried to ignite the lighter, then the fwoosh as the flame came to life. Seconds later, cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of the woods.

Minho cracked open his eyes, then propped himself up on his elbow, looking over at his companion.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight. The blue glow of the moon turned Newt's skin an almost etherial white. His lips, dark, were wrapped around the cigarette, its ember glowing brightly every time he inhaled. The lighter glinted in the faint nighttime light, laying forgotten on Newt's stomach, between two suspicious white stains on his black t-shirt. His hair, tangled even more than before, was splayed around his head like a halo. His eyes were closed peacefully.

"I love you."

If not for the way that Newt's eyes snapped open, Minho might not have known he said those words aloud. The air around them turned heavy as their eyes met, but the light was too dim for Minho to make out the expression in Newt's gaze. With only the alien light of the moon to see by, Minho missed the dock light more than ever.

He did know, however, that he had just made either the very best or the very worst mistake of his life. A slurry of emotions swelled inside his chest, threatening to break free and take his heart and lungs and half his other organs with them. Dread, anticipation, anxiety, and a little pride that he had managed to say what he just did.

He loved Newt. He had for a long time, and some part of him knew it, but the rest of him was simply unwilling to put it into words.

Newt sat up, crossing his legs, pulling his hand away from Minho's.

"Shit, Minho."

He frowned. That wasn't exactly the response he had been hoping for.

Damage control? Damage control.

He sat up, scooting until he was even with Newt, but left a little space between them so he didn't crowd the blond.

"Um, I mean... meant that I, uh... that I love your... your lighter?" he said. Newt fixed him with a glare, shadows beneath his eyes making it that much more intense. Fuck.

"Sorry," he said again. Too late for damage control. "Sorry. I shouldn't've... I'm sorry."

Newt glanced away from him, turning his gaze on the water as he took another drag of his cigarette.

"Ya know this ain't goin' to work, right?" he said after a while. Newt looked to Minho again, but there wasn't a glare in his gaze this time. Something in the dark haired boy's expression must have betrayed his confusion at Newt's words, because the taller boy used his free hand to motion between them both. "This. Us. It won't work."

"Why the hell not?"

"Jesus Christ, Min," Newt hissed. "Why the hell would it? We live hundreds of bloody kilometers apart. I don't know if I'm gonna graduate buggin' high school and you're sortin' through trees worth o’ scholarship offers. You... You won't even tell your parents you like guys, much less that you've been sucking face with one every summer for years."

"So it's about that?" Minho said. "Again?"

Newt was silent for a long time, but Minho wouldn't look at him. He could feel a burn in his eyes that had nothing to do with the cold air around them.

"Yeah," Newt said after a while, his voice quiet and calm and far more gentle than it had been only seconds before. More gentle than it had any right to be, saying those words. "I'll be your summer fling, but I won't spend my life bein' your secret."

Minho’s chest tightened, but he didn’t know if it was out of anger or sadness or fear. All he knew was that is lungs couldn’t fill, that the world around him was suddenly so much warmer, and that… that, fuck, that the tears he had been holding back had fallen.

Fingers brushed against the outer seam of his jeans, right at the knee. Minho lashed out and smacked away the hand with a stinging collision of knuckles. At the same time, he used the cuff of his jacket to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks.

“Min…”

“Keep the fucking lighter,” he snarled, pushing himself to stand. His pants settled low on his hips, unbuttoned and only half zipped, but to _hell_ if he’d stop to fix it now.

Minho tried not to look at Newt as he turned away, but, even through the blur of tears and anger and pain, he still saw the tangle of blond and bright tip of the cigarette. He balled his hands into fists and started back to the cabin, knowing that he could find his way blind, much less teary eyed and biting down sobs.

He didn’t really know how far he made it, only that his feet had left the dock and met soft, muddy ground, when an urgent hiss of his name sounded from behind, and, seconds later, a strong hand wrapped around his wrist. He stopped, mid-stride, and was torn. A part of him, the part that had brought him to this place all those years ago, wanted to spin around and clock Newt in his stupid, beautiful face. Give the blond something to remember him by, or, maybe, just for an instant, make him feel the same way Minho felt.

Break his nose. Bloody him up and make him a little less worth crying over.

The other parts of him, the weak ones, were torn again, between running away and hugging the bastard.

“Minho, please…”

“Please _what_?” he said, glaring at Newt over his shoulder. He didn’t care anymore if the blond saw his tears, but he wasn’t prepared for the desperate look on the taller boy’s face. He was almost—almost—inclined to apologize, between the knitted brow and the large, pleading eyes.

But a breeze ghosted over them and reminded him of the tears covering his face.

“Please fucking what?”

“Please just try to understand, Minho,” Newt said, a tremor running through his voice at the name. He watched the blond swallow thickly, glancing at the sky for a brief moment before looking back at Minho. “I didn’t say that to hurt you. It’s not bloody about you lovin’ me or me lovin’ you. We just… Shit, Minho, we’re not the sort who get happily ever afters.”

There was a sting in Minho’s hands as he unclenched his fists, nails leaving behind red crescents that would remind him of this night for days. He wondered, vaguely, if he drew blood, but decided it didn’t really matter anymore. Not when the fury was slowly leaving him and he knew it was because Newt had said—or, as close as he would probably ever get—that he loved him.

Minho let out a shaky sigh and hung his head as he wiped away the last of the tears.

“Guess that’s it, then?” he said, his voice stronger and calmer than he thought capable.

Newt’s fingers slid from his wrist to his hand and, taking it in his own, twined their fingers together again.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Newt said, leaning in close. Minho closed his eyes, blocking out the blurred sight of the blond and the campground around them, letting himself feel the exhaustion and the warmth of their clasped hands. The smell of mud and cigarettes. Dried sweat and toothpaste. Leather.

“Maybe we can’t have forever, but… we’ve still got the summer.”


End file.
